Why Clowns Are Evil The Sam Winchester Story
by Beautiful-Crying-Angel
Summary: It was Halloween, 1989, when Sam discovered the ultimate truth - clowns are evil.


**Title:** Why Clowns Are Evil – The Sam Winchester Story

**Summary: **It was Halloween, 1989, when Sam Winchester discovered the ultimate truth – clowns are EVIL.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything relating to Supernatural.

**Note:** My first ever Halloween fic. And what better fandom than Supernatural? One of the many possible reasons why Sam may be afraid of clowns. More of those adorable Wee!chesters.

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**Why Clowns Are Evil – The Sam Winchester Story**

Halloween, 1989

The night was warm and inviting, the trees were ablaze in reds and oranges, yellows and browns. Witches, ghosts, vampires, fairies, and princesses were abundant, running door to door in their long robes, eyes hungry, begging for a treat.

Six year-old Sam Winchester watched, fascinated, from the motel room window. Studying the other children intently. He licked his lips enviously, craving the sweet taste of candy, the sacred sugar rush pounding inside your skull.

"Dean?" he asked. "Dean?"

"What?"

"Can we go trick-or-treating?" The older boy peeled his eyes from the television long enough to scoff.

"Why would you want to do something like that?" Dean hated Halloween, hated the way they celebrated the things that went bump in the night. They had _no_ idea what it was really like. They didn't know what it was like to sleep with a knife under your pillow, or to hear your father whisper frightening things in his sleep. They didn't know what it was like to meet your worst nightmares face-to-face, or to be instructed to "protect-Sam-at-all-costs." How many other people carried that burden? No, he didn't enjoy Halloween at all. It made him sick to his stomach. Idiots parading around in costumes, dressed as monsters. The fools.

"I want candy."

"You'll rot your teeth."

"C'mon Dean, please."

_Don't look at him, don't look at him, _Dean thought urgently, knowing that as soon as he looked into those big, puppy dog eyes he would be rendered powerless.

"You don't even have a costume."

"So, I'll make one. Pleeease, Dean." Sam stepped directly in front of him, his lip pulled into a perfect pout, blue eyes pleading. "Pretty please."

"I don't know, Sammy. What if something happened?"

"_Puh-leeease._"

"Fine," Dean's resolve crumbled. "But we'll be doing this my way."

"YAY!"

"First I'll have to clear it with Uncle Bobby." Sam's cheerful smile wavered slightly. Of course, they needed permission. Just because Dad wasn't here didn't mean they could do whatever they wanted, gallivanting at all hours of the night.

Dean called Bobby from a disposable cell phone, and explained their 'situation.' Bobby, as would be expected, was hesitant. Why did they want to go out? What if something happened? Bobby was fort-five minutes away, at best. What if John got home early? What if...?

Calmly, Dean answered all his questions. Because Sam wanted to. Dean was always extra careful, nothing would happen. Forty-five minutes was close enough. And if their dad returned early he'd find a note stating exactly where they were, what they were doing, and when they'd be home. Dean also reasoned that the town was relatively safe, seeing as whatever their father was hunting resided four towns over.

A weary sigh crossed the line, and for a moment Dean hoped Bobby would say no – it would make his life a whole lot easier.

"Okay," he said instead, rattling off a list of safety precautions and instructions. "Make sure to take some sort of gun, loaded with rock salt. If I know John, he left one with you. And take something silver, anything, preferably sharp or pointy. Do _not_ forget the cell, in case you need me. And look after your brother. Blah, blah, blah, blah."

"Yes, Bobby. Fine. No, I won't forget. Won't let him out of my sight. Thanks. Bye." Sam watched him hopefully, hanging onto his every word. "Well, kiddo, we had better find you a costume."

He was answered by a pleased shriek, as Sam began to race in circles, gathering anything he considered useful. Within a few minutes he had created a small pile of materials.

"Let's see..." Dean shifted through the different items. He absolutely _hated_ the idea of dressing his little brother as anything supernatural, paranormal, creepy or crawly. He settled on something simple, a cop. He made Sam put on dark jeans and a hooded sweater (as much for warmth as costume value), and placed on his head a policeman's hat their father had kept from one hunt or another. Not one to leave his brother unarmed, but against giving him firearms, Dean filled a water-gun with holy water, and secured it to Sam's belt. Finally he pinned a toy badge, recently gained from a cereal box, to the hoodie. Dean stepped back, and admired his handy-work. It was pretty good, for a homemade costume thrown together in five minutes, by a ten year old.

"There, perfect. Let's go get this over with."

"But, Dean..."

"What now?"

"You need a costume, too."

"No way, man."

"But it's tradition. You _have_ to." Dean sighed heavily. This was turning out to be more work than it was worth.

Sam scrutinized him carefully, taking in the broad shoulders and muscular arms, already far more built than any other boys his age. What could possibly do him justice? A masked hero with a cape? Like Batman? No, that was silly. A hockey player? Or football player? Better, and Dean certainly possessed the looks, but Sam didn't think they had the right clothing or equipment. What about something light and cheerful, like a dancer or circus performer? Ewww. Sam shuddered at the thought.

Then an idea, so wonderful and perfect hit him. How could he not have seen it before? Digging deep within a closet, he pulled out one of John's thick leather jackets. He commanded Dean to put it on, along with his silver knife, and sawed-off grasped firmly in hand.

"There," Sam declared. "You're a hunter."

Dean liked the feel of the jacket, heavy and smooth on his shoulders, the scent welcoming and familiar. "Kid, you are brilliant."

Pulling an extra pillow case from the closet, and leaving a note on the small kitchen table, the Winchester pair ventured, heads high, into the world of the scary, the greedy, and the frightfully sticky.

**WCAE**

Dean stopped counting houses after seventeen. Sam's pillow case began to become very heavy, as it filled, so he carried it between houses.

"Sammy, this is the last house," Dean decreed. "We're both tired, and this thing is almost full."

"Okay." No complaint there.

The house was large, and colourfully decorated. Orange lights, smiling pumpkins, and ghosts with faces that were too cute to be factual adorned the outside.

Dean waited outside the fence, at the end of the winding cement path. "Don't be long," he commanded, eyeing a group of passing trick-or-treaters suspiciously.

Sam opened the front gate. His brother stood erect, sawed-off in hand, ready and willing to do anything to keep him safe. Nothing was getting by him.

Sam's knock was gentle but loud. He felt weird, standing up there alone.

"Oh, look at the handsome officer," a blond-haired angel gushed, when the door opened. "Isn't he the sweetest, Drew?"

"Aye, methinks you are correct," a pirate, complete with eye patch, said. "You out hunting for treasure, matie?"

"No, sir. I'm trick-or-treating."

"Well then, here'd be your booty." Sticking his hand inside a large bowl, Drew the Pirate extracted several suckers, and dropped them into the awaiting bag. "Well, me hearty, enjoy. And, avast, beware ye scurvy and cavities."

"Thank-you."

The trip down the path seemed much longer, as Sam's arms and legs were exhausted. He just wanted to get back to the motel, and stay up late, watching Halloween specials and cartoon reruns with Dean.

A large weeping willow stood in the yard, its bony fingers drooping, hoping to grasp at some careless human. Suddenly, it seemed seemed more sinister to Sam, waiting and watching. The old tree creaked, and Sam near jumped out of his skin, Dean's name on his lips.

A nasty-looking clown stepped from the shadows, blocking his way.

"Going somewhere?"

The first time Sam had ever seen a clown he had been four. John had taken the boys to a circus, for a very rare treat. Sam had had fun, except for the clowns. Their faces masked in paint, their hair and clothing like rainbows, their red noses and shoes abnormally large. They gave him the creeps.

"It's okay, they're nice. They won't hurt you," John had assured him, brushing off his childish fears.

But this clown did, in fact, _not_ look nice or friendly in any way. And his devilish grin caused a shiver down his spine.

Sam released a frightened yelp, dropping his pillow case of candy. The clown picked it up, his grubby fingers rummaging inside.

"Give it back," Sam demanded feebly, earning a wicked laugh.

"No."

"Please...?"

"Listen, you little brat, you had better leave or I. Will. Eat. You."

Sam's eyes widened in fear, tears ready to erupt. If there was one thing he did not want, it was to be eaten. Especially by some smelly guy in makeup. But Sam could not will his feet to move, frozen in shock and horror.

"Hey, asshole," the voice belonged to Dean. "Give the kid back his candy, now." Just the sight of him, running up the walk, made Sam breathe easier. He looked so tough in their father's jacket, everything was going to be okay. And Sam hoped that hideous clown got it good.

The clown, however, was not about to let some kid kick his butt. He grabbed the smooth leather, pulling Dean off the ground.

"Bite me." Dean struggled to get free, but the clown was too strong, and quite tall at that. Sam reduced to incoherent whimpering, crying for his brother's safety.

There was only one thing he wanted less than to be eaten, and that was for Dean to be harmed. Even if it meant being some painted freak's snack, Sam was willing to take that chance.

_Please don't eat him, please don't eat him,_ Sam begged silently.

The sound of a shot gun being pumped, caught Sam's attention. A hunched old man stood, behind the clown, where none had been before. His gnarled finger hovering over the trigger.

"Put the boy down."

"Or what? You'll shoot me? I bet that thing isn't even loaded."

"You wanna bet?" The newcomer leveled the weapon. "But let me ask you, Bobo. You feelin' lucky?"

The clown gulped, clearly unsure. Gently, he set Dean down, and returned to Sam his goodies.

"There's a lad. Now, git!"

Sam had never seen anyone run so fast in his entire life. Who knew clowns were so athletic?

"Was it really loaded?"

"Oh, goodness me, no," the man laughed. "That'd be just plum crazy."

"Thank-you for your help, sir. I'm just going to take my brother home now." Dean grabbed Sam's hand, pulling him away quickly. "What a crazy old coot! Carrying around a shot gun! What is he, senile? I'll tell you, all the nut jobs come out on Halloween. What if he'd blown that guy's head off? And that good for nothing clown! The jackass! UGH! We are never doing this again!"

As Dean continued to rant and rave, Sam stole a fleeting glance at the old man, who had been their hero. The man waved, a smile on his face, and flickered once before disappearing altogether.

_Woooah._ Sam blinked a few times. That was weird.

"Hey, Sammy, what's wrong?" The boy's face was twisted in concentration, forehead wrinkled in confusion.

"Oh, nothing. I made a discovery today."

"Yeah? What is it?"

"I hate clowns. They are EVIL!"

END

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**_Such childhood events can be life-scarring, lolz. Poor Sammy, I'd hate clowns too.  
I hope you enjoyed.  
Have a Happy Halloween. And BEWARE the people-eating clowns.  
All my love,_**

**_BCA_**


End file.
